


17

by rochelleechidna



Series: Domestic Ishtars [1]
Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Duel Monsters (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Child Abuse, Dry Humping, Family Feels, First Kiss, Gen, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Suicidal Thoughts, Thiefshipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:00:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23188162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rochelleechidna/pseuds/rochelleechidna
Summary: It's not that Malik specifically hates his birthday, but rather what it stands for – blood, screams, tears... Is there ever achoice?
Relationships: Yami Bakura/Malik Ishtar
Series: Domestic Ishtars [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1721830
Comments: 6
Kudos: 25





	17

**Author's Note:**

> Well, it's my birthday today, and I too have mixed feelings on this day like a certain megalomaniacal Egyptian. I genuinely thought this would be a few hundred words at most. Boy, did I underestimate how much I could write in one day about this topic as a form of catharsis, especially during a time of quarantine. This is genuinely the first piece of fanfiction (and prose!) I've written in a long time considering I've been so focused on screenwriting for the last several years, so... ****throws into the void to see what sticks****

The first birthday Malik recalls with any clarity is his fourth rotation around the sun. His memories are hazy of the day, but he remembers feeling warmth and joy mixed with a twinge of sadness.

For the first time in his life, Isis struggles to carry her little brother as they traverse the tomb’s halls. But she nonetheless tries her hardest to keep up with Rishid leading the way ahead. Malik, meanwhile, vaguely remembers wanting to break away and sprint beyond his older siblings.

“Rishid!” Isis’ plea for help is all that's needed for their brother to turn back and gently, so gently, take Malik into his arms. Whether it's Rishid’s calm demeanour or the earlier struggle tiring him out, the blond child immediately relaxes. Isis, all of a precocious eight years of age, barely restrains a scoff. “This won’t work. He’s too much.”

“He’s just enough.” Despite his statement, even Rishid finds the weight of the boy somewhat of a challenge. But the three persevere on, Malik all the while watching the torches lining the walls, entranced. A few minutes later, they reach their destination.

Any prior feelings of animosity dissipate when the huge smile comes over Malik’s face as Rishid lifts him into the air as close as possible to the open hole above.

“The sky, it’s so blue! I can touch it!” The boy cackles in delight, and his siblings smile sadly to each other – they know this is one of the few times their brother is allowed such a luxury, much less during the day when the inviting clouds all but offer him a glimmer of liberation.

It won’t be until years later that Malik will also understand the gesture as not too dissimilar from one which occurred on the night of his birth. The night he unknowingly became heir to a birthright he did not ask for. The night their father truly ceased any and all affection. The night of their mother’s death.

But for now, the three siblings can bask in the scant warmth the sun provides above. The wounds of time might never heal, but Rishid and Isis silently agree that this small child – one who grows more curious, more stubborn, more clever beyond his years by the day – need not know the troubles of the past, present or future at the moment.

“Happy birthday, Malik.” Rishid pulls his brother down and holds him close, gesturing Isis forward into an awkward-fitting hug – Malik really is growing right before their eyes.

“What _is_ a birthday anyway, Rishid?” Lilac eyes meet faded blue.

“The day you came into this world.” It is Isis who answers, a slight breathiness to her voice at the unspoken addendum of their combined loss.

“It’s special, _habibi_ , because you didn’t exist before that day.” Malik nods in rapt understanding, but Rishid just shakes his head as if in disbelief that such a notion is possible. He simply hugs tighter, and for the first time in his life Malik feels a strange tightening sensation in his chest as wetness pools on his shoulder. He hears both his siblings speak as if with one mind: “We’re so happy you’re alive, Malik. Never forget that.” 

* * *

The successive birthdays become clearer and clearer to Malik as he grows older. Whether it's a rare day off from his studies – much to his father’s displeasure – or a game of Senet – in which he still has to fight tooth and nail to win against his siblings; there's no going easy on him just because of the occasion – Malik awaits that day each December with eager joy. Even if it's simply spending a full day watching the rotation of the sun and moon dancing across the sky from down in the tombs, it is his day to bask in whatever little freedom he's granted – and it's all his.

And then his tenth birthday approaches.

Malik knows little but whispers from fellow tomb keepers of what is called “the initiation.” Whatever it is, it sounds awful to his young ears, and that same constricting feeling from years earlier suddenly rears its head again. And when his father calls him in a week before the ritual is to take place to explain in blunt terms what exactly will happen to him on his birthday, it takes all of Malik’s strength not to break down then and there.

“An Ishtar wears those markings with pride!” Malik recalls his father gripping his shoulders tight against the wall and shaking him to control his emotions. “It’s an honour. It’s our legacy.”

There are a million questions Malik could shoot back at that moment, but the sudden act of violence shakes him to his core. He stoically walks back to his room, buries his head in yet another scroll to distract his mind and only allows himself the privilege of saying his thoughts out loud when Rishid enters with a tray of food. All the rumours, all the fears – everything comes pouring out as Malik lashes against his dinner and buries his head in his hands.

“I never asked for this.” Malik is sure his sobs muffle the words, but Rishid’s warm hand on his back suggests otherwise.

“Shall I ease your burden, Master Malik?” The blond cringes slightly at the detached tone and formality from his adopted brother. But it's neither here nor there. The offer is too good.

The tears dry almost instantly as Malik nods in understanding of what Rishid intends to do. The tension in his body releases and he feels the same freedom as he does on all his birthdays – albeit, a week earlier than usual.

But those terrors return tenfold on the anointed date as he feels strong hands drag him away from his room, away from his studies, away from all feelings of familiarity and comfort and down the dimly lit halls. Malik cries out and looks to each surrounding adult, yet no one budges an inch.

There is no sign of his sister. There is no sign of his father. It isn’t until he sees Rishid that a small flicker of hope enters his mind. But when even his brother makes no move towards his rescue, Malik positively screams in fear.

“Rishid! Help!” The hands on Malik’s arms only hold tighter as they lead him towards the foreboding room ahead. “You promised! Don’t let them do this to me!”

The next several hours are a complete blur of pain and misery. Malik knows not where one cut on his back begins or one ends. His earlier screams have made his voice nearly hoarse from the start, so all he can do in his head is pray for mercy, pray for release, pray for—

_“We’re so happy you’re alive, Malik. Never forget that.”_

It is the first moment of many that Malik wishes he’d never been born. 

* * *

The ensuing year – which Malik will later recognise as torture and abuse at the highest level by the hands of his own father – passes painfully and slowly. It takes months for the scars on his once-pristine back to fully heal, mainly due to the constant rebandaging and pulling back of scarred skin and washing with salt solutions that burn every nerve. His father makes Isis and Rishid care for the markings on their brother’s back themselves – with the caveat that if they disobey or make one wrong move that the work will be inflicted on the child all over again.

Malik doesn’t know at the time the full extent of this blackmail, nor does he care – it's apparent to anyone who knew him both before and after the cruel ritual that something has sapped the sweetness and curiosity from his psyche and replaced it with a subtle cruelness and animosity. The boy had unconsciously – almost playfully – been a master of manipulation beforehand in his younger days. Now, it's as if he inherently knows what exact words can coax someone to do his bidding.

Thus, when Malik doesn’t beg but rather plainly states to his siblings that he will go outside on his following birthday, it's no surprise that a plan is immediately set in place.

“If it will make you happy, dear brother.” Isis shows as much compassion as she can muster for the brother who has literally borne so much on his shoulders.

“Leave your father to me. He’ll never know.” Rishid’s reassuring voice rings clear, and Malik smiles in both victory and a genuine appreciativeness towards his siblings. They won’t let him down this time.

When the awaited day comes, Malik can hardly contain his excitement. This will make up for the trauma of the year before. This will be a redemptive act. This will be his chance to feel part of something bigger for once – and not just a cog in a system he never asked for and has secretly begun to disbelieve.

And for a couple of hours Malik runs around carefree, stares awestruck at the marvels of the day and hears so many voices that ring in his head all new and exciting. The almost constant pain in his back – a cruel reminder of what he refuses this day, _his_ day, to become – cedes deep into the recesses of his mind. Instead, he focuses on how the world holds so, so much, and he wants to drink in every moment he's awarded.

But it's when the strange man appears before him and his sister and warns of a terrible tragedy that will befall their family that Malik feels the familiar tight feeling in his body. Isis’ suddenly emboldened eyes catch him by surprise, and he can only stare back at the receding village as they make their way home - though, the word doesn’t ring true in Malik’s head. What "home" is an underground tomb for a child, when even this small section of the outside world - with the possibility of adventures and flashing image-filled boxes and metal vehicles that roar like a great beast - exists?

Malik silently thanks his sister for allowing him a final moment to close his eyes and savour the emotions welling up in his soul. Then they make their way back into the darkness and Malik somehow knows in his gut that such a strong, happy feeling will never be replicated for him again.

“How could I not have seen?” Isis chastises herself for missing the door's alarm as she and Malik race through the tomb to where Rishid should be. A part of Malik’s mind also reprimands his sister, and he feels positively dizzy when he hears the yelps of his brother coming down the hall.

Even years later, Malik doesn’t recall exactly what happens between approaching the opening where the cries emanate and being swaddled in Rishid’s bound hands. He only clearly remembers the shock of seeing his father’s mutilated back on the dirty, blood-covered ground nearby, and the same man from earlier in the village effectively setting him on a path that will consume the next several years of his life.

_“We’re so happy you’re alive, Malik. Never forget that.”_

Something snaps, and Malik feels alive again – if only to go on long enough to avenge the fact that his father isn’t. 

* * *

By the time Malik turns fourteen, he has amassed more power than even he could have originally envisioned in his young mind. Gone are the days of conservative dress and denial of luxuries. Now, he takes every opportunity to adorn himself in expensive clothes, gold trinkets – stolen from the tombs, of course – and enough confidence that he knows, _he just knows_ that people will stare whenever he deigns to present himself in public.

But despite the countries he and Rishid have traversed and the eye-opening cultures to which they've been exposed, Malik still feels an odd connection to the darkness of his childhood and prefers to manage his Ghouls from the shadows. Besides, he reasons, the Rod provides enough shine for his maladjusted eyes. It is not the dark he fears, but rather the uncertainty it provides.

He tries to ignore the day in question as anything other than a typically cold and dreary Scottish winter morning. But when Malik hears a knock on his hotel door – unusual in itself considering the entire building and its caretakers have been taken control of through the powers of his Millennium Item – he pushes aside his books and makes his way forward. A single lamp from back in the suite provides the only light source, but Malik instantly knows that it's Rishid who greets him on the other side.

“It’s early, Master Malik.” Rishid’s reserved statement may be a sign of naivety to the untrained ear, but the blond knows what he means in an instant. “I heard footsteps and wanted to—”

“I couldn’t sleep. Still trying to crack this damn language.” Japanese textbooks align the floor aways away, adorned with dog-ears and small notes throughout their pages. A smirk makes its way across Malik’s face. “But the nine languages before didn’t beat me. So I won’t let this one win.”

“At least take today off.” His elder brother steps into the lavish hotel room and the two young men bump shoulders. Malik wonders at when they had grown so close in height, but does not close the door.

“There will be plenty of time to rest when I gain the freedom I deserve.” The hardness in the younger boy’s face softens very slightly, as if remembering something. “That _all_ us tomb keepers deserve.”

“Just an afternoon then.” The older man perseveres. “There’s a castle fit for a king down the road.”

“Did I not make myself clear?” Malik slowly loses patience. He instinctively reaches for the Rod behind his back as a grounding mechanism. “Besides, once we take vengeance on the man who kept us in the dark for so long, there won’t be a need for kings.”

Rishid betrays no emotion, and Malik senses that he knows there could have been no other outcome to this meeting between two individuals who day by day become more like strangers.

“Very well.” Rishid silently acknowledges the lost battle and makes his way back out. But he turns around once he enters the hallway. “It does you no good to hide away on a day like this, Master Malik. These temporary abodes don’t _have_ to be like the tombs.”

Malik slams the door shut at the perceived back talk. After a few deep breaths, and with a firm grip on the Rod, he makes his way back to the books on the floor.

_“We’re so happy you’re alive, Malik. Never forget that.”_

It is a life of one goal and one goal alone and Malik, all by himself and with a single light trained on his work, will not give in to distractions so easily – not when he is so close. 

* * *

To anyone who doesn’t know him well, it appears as if Malik’s seventeenth birthday is one of peace and quiet. In actuality, the ringing in his head brought on by years of unspoken mental troubles and unquiet alters and dissociated amnesia and Gods knew what else keep him away from others as much as possible. Being face-down on the bed wrapped in silk sheets provides the only solace.

He has succeeded and yet failed. Neither a king nor a peasant, he is left only with himself. Malik Ishtar. Would-be pharaoh. Only human after all. The full enormity of his age – both one that has seen too much and yet actually experienced so little thanks to a cruel hand of fate – hits him like his father had just over seven years ago.

A noise to his side catches Malik’s attention, and he shifts slightly to take in the sight of the white-haired individual with whom he had fostered an unusual partnership mere months before.

“Are you another sign of my trauma?” Malik chuckles at the notion – it would be just his luck to conjure up this bastard. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

“Never stopped me before.” It's only when he feels a weight on the bed and sees a hand reaching towards his back that Malik flinches away. Bakura smirks. “These walls you’ve built up are even worse than mine.”

“Don’t talk like you know me.” Malik rises swiftly and makes his way to the mirror over the dresser. He can see his former partner’s ingratiating face clear as day, but also – and more disturbingly – his own unadorned visage. How long has it been since he’s gone with no gold, no kohl, no care given to his appearance? Fuck this day for making him feel vulnerable. Fuck this asshole for coming back into his life like this. Fuck—

“Wouldn’t you _like_ someone to know you?” Bakura is suddenly right behind him, black coat discarded on the floor. Malik tries to smirk at him through their reflections but is sure it comes out more as a sad half-smile. When they’d first met, this man really hadn’t known who he was. Who his clan was. What his birthright was. And it didn’t appear as if he’d cared to know. The odd, joyous feeling of for once not being treated differently for his identity — it had been intoxicating.

So it's no surprise to himself when Malik closes his eyes and mentally cries out _‘yes’_ in answer to the spirit’s question, and then verbally so when he feels unexpected and cool hands wrap around his waist and chest. Before getting too caught up in the swell of emotion, Malik recognises the triggering effect of touch on his back and spins himself around to meet chestnut eyes. The tight feeling in his body feels stronger than usual, yet altogether different from past instances.

Bakura’s eyes almost dare him to take the bait. Like the clichéd moth to the flame – really, more like the hormone-driven, touch-starved teenager that refused to accept he was curious for gratification and affection – Malik crashes his lips against the white-haired spirit’s and pushes him hard onto the bed. He feels rough hands running across his sides – trailing further upwards inch by inch – and returns the gesture by pushing that stupid striped shirt up to reveal pale skin underneath.

He has no idea what he's doing, but he senses through the desperation of his partner – the word now taking on a very new meaning – that they're in good company with each other. It's a bit of teeth, a little exchange of saliva and a whole lot of tongue and fuck it Malik doesn’t want this any other way. Doesn’t want Bakura matching his moans below him any other way. Doesn’t want to be straddling this gorgeous man any other way.

It's only when he feels a noticeable change in the tightness of his pants that the former criminal breaks the intense kiss, and the full enormity of what he's doing becomes too much to ignore on Bakura’s half-lidded, rosy and panting face. To be fair, Malik is almost certain he's returning the same look tenfold. Whatever this is, there's an unspoken agreement that neither want to stop.

“Never hesitated before, Ishtar.” Malik knows the spirit is goading him again, and Gods damn if he won’t exert all his control to get what he wants. To start, he can’t let Bakura get away with those hands on his back. The blond grabs the pale wrists more gently than he would have expected of himself and pins them over the soft white hair. Bakura only smirks – that _was_ expected – which both spurs Malik and turns him on even more.

“I’d rather you scream _my name_ instead.” As if dolling out punishment, Malik drops to the spirit’s neck and offers a barrage of ever-increasing kisses, nips, sucks and – eventually – bites. Bakura, for his part, only whimpers and groans in abject pleasure. He makes his want known by rolling up into Malik, hitting exactly the right spot, and the blond is more than happy to return the favour. Even fully clothed, he marvels at the intensity of the feeling and almost stops himself to take it a step or two further.

And then for a split second, Malik considers that this sudden increase in pleasure is too good for him, too much for someone who’s led his kind of life. But the erotic sounds and breathless nothings coming from Bakura’s mouth against his own are too hard to ignore. So he continues the pattern they have going, picking up speed when it becomes apparent that they are both close to release, _so very_ close it almost hurts - there's no turning back now.

“Malik—!” Bakura suddenly cries out in what the blond can only assume is a very gratifying climax, and Malik is left helpless to stop his own orgasm at the sound of his name on the spirit’s lips. He collapses in a heap on top of the man below, and as they both catch their breath he feels Bakura’s now feather-light hands suddenly back on the portion of Malik’s tank top that cover his scars – was he feeling them out over the fabric to trace them?

“They won’t do you much good now.” Malik turns his face upwards to glance at his partner, more curious than scolding.

“I was like you, you know. In another life. Too long ago to remember.” Bakura ignores Malik’s statement and maintains his touch.

“Interesting choice of bedroom talk.” Even in his post-coitus state, Malik gives the spirit an inquisitive, if not hazy, look.

“Why do you think I helped you save your brother at no gain for myself?” In that moment, Bakura looks as if he could stare straight into Malik’s soul – this level of power will not do, the blond thinks.

“Perhaps you found me irresistible.” Whether Malik’s jab goes over Bakura’s head or is for once left unspoken, he can’t tell.

“I didn’t save your ass to have you turn into me.” The spirit’s words strike a nerve, but Malik is so blissed out that he can’t immediately retort. He rises up, grimaces at the mess made in his pants and only after he’s grabbed some nearby tissues and cleaned up – Bakura refuses any for himself – does his cockiness return full force.

“Well, Bakura, seems you’ve already given me a gift. Aren’t you going to wish me a happy birthday?” Malik asks the question facetiously, but nearly loses his mind – again – when he receives a genuine answer.

“I wish you enough, Malik Ishtar.”

And with that, Bakura is gone from the bed, gone from the room completely. Tissues still in hand, Malik wobbles against the wall and slides down. He can't be _that_ crazed, can he? Had the spirit really been there, or—

He sits still for what feels like mere minutes but ends up being almost an hour. It's only when he hears the knock on his bedroom door that Malik shakes himself out of his trance and – more out of shock than necessity – races to answer. His siblings stand outside, and for a brief moment no one among the trio knows what to say.

“Malik, we know it’s—” Isis’ normally soothing voice holds an edge to it when she speaks – his sister _never_ stutters. “Would you like us to spend today with you?”

“Today. Tomorrow. Yesterday. It’s all the same to me.” Malik walks away from the door and sits on the floor of the room that is slowly becoming his sole existence. He doesn’t mean to sound despondent, he really doesn’t. Normally he can act his way through the bitterness, but today—

“Rishid and I understand. However, we also recognise that this is the first time in six years that the three of us are together on this day. Since—” His sister’s faltering starts to grate Malik’s nerves. She hovers over him like a vulture, though a very small part of him recognises that it's most likely not her intent.

“Since we realised how fucked I was in the head? But I guess even _that_ happened years ago.” Malik is sure his voice trembles through his mask of strength. Rishid kneels down to meet him at eye level, attempting to even the playing field.

“If you’d rather be alone—”

“I’d rather die.” The youngest Ishtar’s abrupt honesty throws all three of them for a loop - for entirely separate reasons.

“Malik! How can you say such a thing?” Isis joins her brothers on the floor but keeps her distance alongside Rishid. “The Pharaoh is gone. Our duty is done. There’s no reason to be so upset anymore.”

Her words are meant to be reassuring, but all Malik can realise in that moment is how this particular day each year goes beyond scars and abuse and dead mothers and murdered fathers and ancient Pharaohs and card games and unrealised feelings and countdowns to oblivion.

“Why would I _not_ be upset? I’ve been angry almost half my life.” Malik figures the façade has to crack at some point – his siblings’ reactions be damned. “You know I never wanted any of this, I never asked to be born to this life. And to be reminded of that repression and duty and captivity every year—" He knows he should stop, but the words have been unspoken between the three of them for too long. "I know I deserve better. Just think where I, you, _we all_ could have ended up if we’d been given a fair shot, how far we’d have gone! How the hell am I supposed to go between wanting life to be better, bearable or—" The spirit’s earlier words rattle in his head. “—just fucking enough?”

Malik doesn’t even register the hot tears that flow down his cheeks until he feels the embrace of strong arms around his shoulders – an entirely different gesture than previously with Bakura, or even years before at the discovery of his father’s desecrated body.

“It is enough that you are here in this world at all, _habibi_. It is enough that we have that uncertainty to move ahead, unbound by any destiny set forth by others.” Rishid’s calm voice never ceases to stun Malik into a stupor – how in his youth had he ever thought to hurt his brother with harsh words and often harsher violence?

“I finally have you both back, and we can walk into the light of uncertainty together.” Malik knows those words are especially poignant coming from his once all-knowing sister, and he feels Isis wrap her arms around the two men as confirmation of her resolve.

“How many do we know who can say they have that privilege of choice now?” The additional comment from his older brother makes Malik think, and several moments pass before any other sound occurs.

An improved life. An acceptable life. A life with adequate choice. Were not _all_ three attainable? This had been weighing not just on his soul and mind but his heart for so long. Fuck it, Malik thinks with a sudden exuberance. They were Ishtars. They could finally have it all.

“Us tomb keepers never seem to live long, fulfilled lives, eh?” Malik’s attempt to lighten the mood earns him a chuckle from Rishid and a sigh from Isis, though they all understand the hidden implication behind the words. “As head of the Ishtar clan, I think it’s time that changed.”

And for the first time since he can even remember the concept of birthdays, Malik finally understands the words of his siblings from long ago.

_“We’re so happy you’re alive, Malik. Never forget that.”_

Perhaps now he never would.


End file.
